


I Need No Sympathy

by Alec_Brimstone5381



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (that doesn't mean I won't add some later), Angst, Excessively, Fainting, Kind of Frail Roger Taylor, Mild Language, No current relationships - Freeform, Smoking, The Band - Freeform, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alec_Brimstone5381/pseuds/Alec_Brimstone5381
Summary: As a child, Roger had never particularly been the biggest, or the toughest.  He was always the pretty blonde one: the skinny kid.But that wasn't always the biggest problem.The other band members never knew how bad it could get.





	1. Chapter 1

As a child, Roger had never particularly been the biggest, or the toughest. When the other kids had gone through their growth spurts and got into fights, or wrestled in the dusty back alleys, Roger had stayed the same. Eventually of course, he'd shot up a bit, put on a few pounds, but there was a significant chunk of his childhood where he’d been the runt of the pack. The pretty blonde one: the skinny kid with the face like a baby’s. 

It had shredded his confidence in school, especially when the boys would call him a prissy or a girl, and push him around a bit when all he was ever trying to do was fit in. They’d grown up though, and so had he. He began to learn in his later teens, after he'd grown a few inches, that not all the girls liked the tough muscled guys that ruled high school anyway, and that he could use his looks to his advantage. He grew his hair out, wore skinny jeans. It would give him a sick burst of pleasure when some bloke that used to tease him would hit on him from behind, before realising their error. He loved the attention he got; grew to revere the occasion where he was called ‘pretty' or ‘blue eyes’.

The main concern from his younger years had not been, however, the name calling or the teasing, but the other complications that came with being skinny and blonde and living in a country with very little sunlight. 

His ma would always loudly announce that he needed more food, more sun on his skin, but Roger didn't really like the sun because it hurt his eyes and burnt his skin, and he ate plenty, it just seemed to wash straight through him. He hated it when the summer blaze would turn everything a blinding white and he'd have to squint, yet also despised the cold months in which he would shiver, wrapped up in mittens and scarves, icy winds nipping at his frail, bony body.

When he sat up too quickly, he'd get dizzy, and in winter he'd sometimes be so weak in the mornings that his mother would have to drag him out of bed and feed him soup just to get a pinch of colour into his cheeks. Lack of iron in his blood would make him feel faint, and his energy always drained away as quickly as it came. 

Growing older, these symptoms declined somewhat, and his quirks became more bearable, or, then again, maybe it was just helped along by his discovery of how cool he looked in sunglasses (it was much more attractive than squinting in bright lights). He was defiantly stronger, and most of the time he didn't even think about his fragility as a child. He was careful.

 

 

The year was 1974 and Queen were in the process of working on a new album between gigs. Brian was hunched over in the corner with a scrap of paper and a bowl of cereal. He juggled between scratching words frantically onto the page and trying to scoop soggy milk and oats into his mouth with his other hand. Roger muffled a snort when he brought the spoon up to the side of his face and dribbled milk down his chin. 

“What?” Snapped Brian, but Roger knew he didn't really care what he had to say: he was too absorbed with the lyrics he was writing.

“There anymore cereal left?” Roger inquired instead.

“No dear,” piped up Freddie from where he was picking at his fingernails in a cheap leather couch by the door. “Brain here’s been sucking up food like a vacuum cleaner since before 7 this morning.”

“Should have gotten up earlier.” Grumbled Brian.

There was a sudden TWANG from the corner and a muffled curse as John snapped a string on his base guitar.

“Whatever.” Said Roger. He wasn't that hungry anyway. He'd eat later. 

Freddie jumped up to help John change his strings and Brian peered down at his cereal, frowning intently.

 

 

By 2 o’clock, the day had picked up the pace considerably. There’d been a run to the shops to pick up new strings and a drumstick. Then the phone had rang and it was Mr Beach calling to announce a sudden interview that had been arranged last minute. As the youngest and therefore “underlings” as Freddie had called them (to Roger’s disgruntled complaints), John and Roger had been shunted off to attend in place of the whole band. Apparently, Freddie and Brian were far too busy writing hits. It wasn't too long but it was stuffy and too hot in the tiny office. The interviewer had sat way too close as well, which was never a good sign. His hunches were proved right when Roger had been asked several slightly invasive questions about his sex life.  
Leaving the room and stepping out into the street, Roger felt a little odd. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he thought it had something to do with the heat, and maybe the smell of greasy food from the café next door. 

“You alright?” Asked John, as Roger squinted at the pavement.

“Yeah. Just bright out here.” 

“Where’re your sunglasses?”

Roger patted down his pockets,

“Are you joking!?” He exclaimed in frustration “They’re not here.”

“You'll be fine Rog. We’ll just take a taxi back anyway.”

But they didn't end up taking a taxi, because there were no taxis, so they walked the long way back over the blazing pavements and though the city fumes. John must have been feeling a little sorry for him: he knew about Roger’s poor eyes, and understood the frustration he was experiencing, so they stopped off around the corner from the studio and brought an ice lolly each.

The ice was refreshing and cool on his tongue, but it didn’t end Rogers frustration. The heat was making him particularly drowsy, and as they turned a corner, his foot snagged on a loose bit of concrete and he stumbled slightly.

“Careful” fretted John, reaching out to steady him.

“Bloody stupid pavement,” Cursed Roger, “I spend my life working to pay the government their flipping taxes and what do they do with them?”

“What do they do with them?” Hummed John amused. He sucked on his blackcurrant lolly.

“They- uh. They don’t fix the damn pavements! That’s what they don’t do!”

 

They’d planned to work on some music together in the afternoon, but after the unexpected chaos of the day, everyone was feeling frustrated and worn out- even Freddie and Brian, whom Roger complained didn’t do half as much work as him and John. To top it all off, Roger had a splitting headache: probably brought on by his slog through the blinding sunlight. It was making him snappish and irritable- which was absolutely not his fault.

“That’s ridiculous John.” He sneered, “No one in their right mind would say that, not even in song.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Countered John defensively from his position perched on the counter. It was 6 in the evening; sun beginning to set. The large room was shrunk down by the shadows cast and the four men sat in Freddie’s kitchen. Various mugs of tea and coffee were cluttered on the table, amidst scraps of paper, chewed pens and scrabble pieces, and the air was hazy with the stench of tobacco from the cigarettes Roger and Freddie were chain smoking. Brian tapped his foot impatiently on the tiled floor as Roger flicked a rubber band at John’s head.

“Come on, John: “Eating pepper is Hot Like You?”

“Well you don’t have to say it in that silly voice! That would make any line sound ridiculous!”

 

“I’m off.” Huffed Brian, “If all you lot are going to do is smoke and argue, then there’s no point me staying.”

Freddie jumped up and stubbed out the end of his cigarette, before promptly lighting another one.

“Wait just a sec, Bri!” He exclaimed, “We’re being productive here. Personally, I found that all this sizzling tension has opened my eyes to a new world of creative melody’s and ground-breaking lyrics!”

“If by lyrics you mean petty insults…” Grumbled Roger irritably. He didn’t find it in himself to care that most of the “petty insults” had been said by himself.

“See, there you go again.” Muttered Brian. He threw his arms up in exasperation, causing smoke to waft into his pompous face and make him cough. Roger snorted. He imagined the smoke was getting to him- making him lightheaded.

There were then twenty or so awkward seconds were Brian hovered awkwardly by the door, as if unsure whether he should just give up and leave or cave into the other’s demands. Roger and Freddie stared at him moodily and expectantly respectively.

John broke the silence.

“Look Brian, stay half an hour longer. We’ll get something done. And quit smoking Roger, Freddie.”

“Darling, if you insist.”

“Fine.”

Roger got up to chuck his ciggie in the ash tray. Yet suddenly, as he stood, he felt a rush of dizziness wrack upwards through his muscles. The faintness he'd been feeling all day hit him all at once. His head felt like it was rocking on his shoulders. Blackness crept into his vision.  
Brian’s face blurred inwards as he took one staggered step forwards.

 

“Help-” He rasped out. Before collapsing to the floor.


	2. Little High, Little Low.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly a filler chapter. It deals with the immediate aftermath.

One moment, Roger was clambering out of his stool in a huff, the next, there was a solid THUD as his lifeless body dropped onto the tiles.

“What-,” Started John.

“Rog?”

“What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Replied Freddie, rushing over “He just collapsed.”

Brain stood motionless, awkward and stunned.

“Well?" barked Freddie, “Get me a wet cloth or something! I think he just fainted.”

“Yeah. Yeah Right.” Brian stumbled, scrambling to run a tea towel under the tap.

“I don’t understand… how?” Mumbled John.

“Rog?”

“Roger? Can you hear me?”

“Shit.”

“What?” Brain spun round, all but flinging wet droplets everywhere.

“He’s bleeding.”

John looked pale.

There was a growing pool of red around Roger's head, that they hadn’t noticed at first, and it was soaking into his blond strands of hair and dyeing them a murky brown. It looked like a horror scene: the blood was spreading slowly outwards, washing over the white tiles.

“Shit. Shit shit shit. He must have hit his head.” Swore Freddie. Brian could tell by the wide eyes that panic was settling in, where cool efficiency had been in place just seconds before. This was out of their hands.

“I’m phoning an ambulance.” Decided Brian. He spun back round and grabbed the landline off the wall stand, firing in the numbers 999.

“Grab a dry tea towel!” Interrupted John suddenly, “We’ve got to stop the bleeding!” Brian was already reaching behind him to yank the drawer back open and pull out any cloth he could find. He threw a British Isles 1965 print in Freddie’s general direction, then glanced at the floor. Someone had stepped in the puddle and had smeared crimson stains across the room. He felt abruptly nauseous.

The ring tone ended, and a woman’s voice began speaking at him down the phone. 

“Hello, you have dialled 999, what service do you require?” 

Brian couldn’t stop staring at Roger. A buzzing noise began to fill his ears, like a fly had got trapped inside his brain and was spinning round and round and round and getting bigger and louder, stopping his senses and causing the room to feel blurry.  
“Ambulance,” He released with a huff of breath. “We need an ambulance” Then he promptly shoved the phone at John and slid down to the ground, heart pounding.

“Brian, You alright?” Worried Freddie, as John started speed talking down the cord.

“Yeah, yeah, just- is there anything I can do?” He didn’t hear Freddie’s response properly, his brain was too fuzzy, but he thought it sounded like ‘You just stay put,’: so he did, trying to calm his racing heartbeat and taking deep breaths.

“Yes, that’s right, there’s a lot of blood.” Spoke John quickly. “Yes, we’ve put pressure on the wound. No. He’s unconscious. Ok. Got it. We’re at number 23...”

 

 

Sirens. Wailing and wailing and screaming. Goddd… So loud. It was deafening. All around him. Roger groaned. Had he been drinking last night? Who left the tv on? Trying to shuffle slightly, his noticed his hair felt sticky. Oh, please say no one had vomited in his hair. The blaring sirens were still going. If anything, they were louder. He tried to communicate his discomfort, possibly yell out to ‘Bloody shut up because he had a headache’, but all that came out was another strangled grunt.  
He felt weird and heavy, and he wasn’t liking it. Trying to move his legs, all he got was a wave of weakness and nausea. Someone was nearby, he could hear words, but couldn’t make out the meaning. Then nothing.

 

 

Roger was sat up in his hospital bed, propped up on cushions like a child’s doll. Hair neatly arranged around the bandages, and arms resting loosely at his sides. Since he’d woken up that morning, he’d drifted in and out of sleep, probably because of the medication. This was the first time he’d felt fully conscious. He remembered what had happened clearly enough. The bickering, the smoke, the annoyance he felt as he got up to put out his cigarette. After that though… there was nothing. The doctors said he had fainted, due to stress or exhaustion; that the reason they were keeping him so long was because of the bang to his head. They wanted to check for concussion.

Although his thoughts were still foggy, he mostly felt stupid for going the day without eating or drinking. Sometimes all the chaos of their lives got him all muddled up and frenzied. That was the problem with living in the moment: he forgot about the consequences of his past and future.  
He lay there blearily, for what felt like forever, blinking at the lights and flashes of colour from the behind the paper screens.

A knock on the door jolted him from his reflections. He sleepily shifted his head to look over, noticing with elation that his mates' heads were poking up against the glass square. He shook his hand loosely in invitation.

“What’s going on?” Freddie blurted as he barrelled into the room, closely pursued by Brian. “None of the nurses would say anything! We’ve been waiting out here for hours!” 

Roger blinked and smiled grimly.

“Morning…” He rasped. When was the last time he’d had a drink? His voice sounded like shit. Trying to force his eyes to remain open, he watched as Freddie dragged a chair up to his bedside, and Brian shut the door behind them quickly.

“Afternoon actually.” Frowned Brian, before Freddie barrelled on. 

“How are you darling? Oh heavens! We thought you were dying Roger dear, and we couldn’t do a damn thing about it!” Freddie rattled, clearly shaken. “We’re so glad you’re up and talking- hold on. You’re not actually dying on us are you Rog? You’re not dying, and the doctors just told you now? Was that episode last night a symptom?”

Roger groaned.

“Shush Freddie. He’s trying to speak.”

“’M fine guys. ‘M just… tired.” Roger mumbled. He was still feeling a bit dizzy, and the bright lights bouncing off the sterile silvery walls weren’t helping. Brian and Fred’s worried expressions swam in and out of focus.

“Are you sure dear? You looked like you lost a lot of blood.”

“’M sure Fred… Just stired- um, tired. I mean.” He blinked again. Hazily and disorientated.

Doctors had been in and out all morning, between spurts of sleep and consciousness, informing him of his changing conditions and monitoring his health. Surely he’d know if one of them had slipped his impending demise into conversation. Freddie and Brian were just overreacting. John would soon set them straight… Wait. John?

“Where’s John?” He asked.

“Just popped out to the cafeteria to pick up coffee for us.” Replied Brian and smiled softly for the first time since entering the room. “Only two visitors allowed at a time I’m afraid.”

“Bloody nuisance.” Snapped Freddie. “He was up all-night pacing- worried himself half to death over you. Now he has to sit in his fears for yet another half an hour!”

Roger wanted to ask why on earth John didn’t just come up instead then, but he couldn’t find it in himself to sort out the words in his head, let alone attempt to speak them. Rather than straining himself, he let out a gentle huff of air.

“We should let him sleep it off.” He heard Brain whisper after a moment, when his eyes had slipped shut.

“What? And forgo our brutally bargained 35 minutes of visiting time?” Hissed back Freddie. “Over my decayed and grey-haired body.”

Brian murmured something about ‘going to find John then’. There was a gentle click from the door, then just the soothing tones of Freddie starting up a tune.

It was a pretty sound: a hummed melody that Roger couldn’t quite put his finger on. Nevertheless, that and the crisp sheets beneath him put him into deep sleep within moments.

 

 

Coming home had been a hassle. The hospital had only kept him overnight, since it was just a fainting spell, and discharged him in the evening. The others must have picked up on his exhaustion, since the taxi ride they’d taken had been silent as the grave, and maybe just a tad bit awkward. Night lights blinked past through the steamed up windows, and Roger was huddled in a sweater of his that someone must have popped back home to pick up between now and earlier. It was warm and too big (It probably hadn't originally started out as his), and the taxi driver was smart enough not to drag up a conversation. Jesus, Roger just needed to sleeepppp…

Fifteen minutes later, Freddie was fumbling with the front door keys and Roger was breathing in the brisk evening air, merged with the familiar scent of rubbish from the chip shop down the road. They wasted no time stumbling into the apartment and kicking off shoes, Brian rummaging through the cupboards for an evening snack (lords, they must be starving) and John carefully locking up behind them.

Just before Roger turned to trudge up the stairs, he thought he saw Freddie and Brian give each other a pointed look. He paused slightly on the bottom step, waiting for them to speak up, but all he got was a cautious:

“Night.” And a:

“Sleep well darling. Get some rest.”

He decided to forget it for now. An annoying headache was the last thing he remembered before he threw himself under the covers. 

 

He'd deal with it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this far. The next chapter has already been written, so it should be published soon. I apologise for all the short chapters: I have a short attention span.


	3. Pulled My Trigger

Chapter 3

 

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The kitchen clock filled the room with its presence, preying on the stifling silence and gaps in conversation like a tiger stalking its next meal.  
Roger considered broaching the looming topic, then decided that the content of his cereal bowl was a much more appealing and simpler train of thought. He couldn’t help but notice that Freddie had poured him a rather considerable amount- more so than usual, and that someone had even sprinkled sugar on top.

Last night they’d all been too worn out to start a conversation, but Roger could tell they had wanted to, Brian especially. He realised that no one really had any idea why on earth he’d been in the hospital. Apart from the slim visiting time and the journey back in the taxi, they’d seen next to nothing of each other, and the doctors weren’t legally allowed to release information to non-family members. Roger had no idea why the idea seemed so uncomfortable, apart from the fact he’d have to admit he’d eaten nothing on Monday, and Freddie could be such a fussy mother hen. All he had to do was explain the situation, apologise for being an idiot, and maybe tell them all to piss off for good measure.

Instead, he raised a spoonful of sugary cereal to his mouth and kept quiet.

It was John who eventually raised the topic.

“How are you feeling?” He ventured cautiously. Screw him.

“Alright, thanks.” Roger stirred his soggy breakfast in miserable contemplation, waiting for the next question. Freddie struck.

“So, are you going to tell us what that was all about?”

“Yes, please do elaborate, we’re all dying to know,” Said Brian. “Not that… ahmm, dying is… um something that should be brought up in present conversation.” He trailed off.

Roger slammed his spoon down.

“I’m not bloody dying alright?!” He snapped.

“There he goes...” Muttered Brian.

“So you can all stop dancing round like I’m made of fricking eggshells!! I’m fine!”

He paused, breathing heavily, taking in their shocked expressions.

“And you can all PISS OFF!”

He scraped his chair back and made to march out of the kitchen, but was stopped by a tight grip on his shoulder. He was spun back round by an angry looking Freddie.

“Hey!” Barked Fred, “If you’re just so peachy then you can bloody well explain why on earth we wasted over half a day trapped in a shitty, puke-reeking hospital waiting room for you to get out of bed!”

“Fred, just leave it. Please.” Murmured John.

“No! I want to know what’s going on- and if that means I have to legally adopt the idiot just to get bloody information from the health service then so be it!”

Roger shoved Freddie’s hand off him.

“Fine,” he snarled. “I forgot to fricking eat on Monday. I was tired, and I fainted. There is nothing. Nothing! Wrong with me.”  
He strode off again, this time slamming the door behind him.

 

 

“Well, that was something.” Grumbled Brian as the door banged shut.

“Yes, well done, Freddie, Brian. You really handled the situation.” Added John sarcastically. The frustration he held at his friends’ quick temper was currently pulling the reins, however, there was no doubt that give it time, guilt and concern would consume them, and they’d run after Roger like small children, begging for forgiveness. 

Roger would most likely grudgingly accept their apologies, despite the fact that half the conflict had been his own fault, and everyone would silently agree never to bring up the subject again. It would sit dormant in their minds, not quite forgotten, but festering, ripening, ready to be ripped out again at the slightest provocation. 

John sighed as Freddie and Brian shot him a critiquing look as if to say: ‘Well you didn’t exactly help either.’

He refused to rise to the bait (like always). People liked to say that Roger was the rowdy one, but when Freddie was spoiling for a fight, things could get just as ugly; John didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire. 

So John finished his toast and tea, put on a warm jacket, grabbed his umbrella (just in case- you never could be sure in London) and headed out. He stopped only to wave a quick goodbye to the two brooding men at the breakfast table.

He wandered for a while, through Hyde park, into a record shop where he preened just a little to see one of their newer albums in prize position in the window display. And: oh yes, of course, it was raining now. Bugger. It dripped down, steady and dreary. John pushed up his black umbrella, to join the throngs of Londoners swarming their way through the drizzle.

He ended up in a small pub, smoky and warm, with a radio set up in the corner crackling out the sporting news. Shrugging off his damp jacket, he ordered a pint and sat down to muse.

The way Roger had acted that morning seemed very defensive, he realised. He’d say it was just his mate being embarrassed about forgetting to eat all bloody day, if it was not for the fact that incidents like that were a common occurrence for touring bands and growing rockstars. They’d all done similar things countless times. They had a busy lifestyle. What could one do?

He considered the option that Roger may actually be seriously ill and refusing to admit it but… he just couldn’t think of a reason why. He could imagine Roger milking it for all he was worth, lavishing in the attention. No… something else was bothering him. 

He sipped his beer and wondered.

 

 

On the afternoons they had free, John liked to prop himself up on an armchair and read the newspaper, or perhaps a paperback fiction novel he’d picked up at the train station. Sometimes he would practice scrabble by himself (someone had to stand up to Freddie and Brian when they got into the swing of things). This evening he was filling out the crossword from the back page of The Guardian, frowning in concentration as he had to go back and scribble out yet another word.

It had begun to rain even more heavily by the time he’d left the pub, and despite clinging onto his umbrella for dear life, he’d gotten so damp and shivery he’d had to take a warm bath the thaw his bones out. His curls were dripping a little onto his shirt.

After a while, Roger slouched into the room, sat on the couch and began to flick through Freddie’s magazines on the side table. John nodded in greeting, and almost went straight back to his crossword, but Roger looked like he was about to say something. So, he put down his paper. 

He was right: after a moment’s pause, he spoke up.

 

“Deaky?” Grunted Roger.

 

“Hmm?”

"I just wanted to say..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading. I will continue to update. I know that nothing much happens in this chapter, but be patient. XD


	4. Nothing Really Matters To Me

Chapter 4

 

“Deaky?”

“Hmm?”

"I just wanted to say… ah, um…" Roger stumbled over his words and John waited patiently.

“I was always a weak kid.”

“Huh?”

Roger glared down at his fists in a way that screamed discomfort.

“Frail, I mean.” Roger continued in a low voice. It was kind of gruff too, like he was compensating for the vulnerability in his words. “I was too skinny, too pale, too weak… I’m just saying…” He trailed off, and John leaned forward slightly, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s happened before. I mean. It really isn’t anything to fuss over. It used to happen all the time, y’know. It just- hasn’t… in a while.”

“Alright.” Said John.

“And I know I lost my temper, I was frustrated. At myself. God, I was such a bloody idiot!” He clenched his fists. “I’ve worked too damn hard to be seen as fucking incapable again!”

‘I’m sorry.” He finished bluntly, then grabbed the newspaper to hide behind. His face burned with a vengeance that screamed: ‘NOW FORGET WHAT I SAID AND LEAVE ME ALONE!’.

John refused to comply.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re blathering on about, Rog, but one thing you’re not is weak.”

The newspaper rustled.

“For starters, I don’t reckon there’s many out there that could bash about on those drums for as long and hard as you do.”

No reply.

“Look here,” He continued, “If it bothers you so much, I'll tell the others to lay off with the mollycoddling- but you know how Freddie can be.”

A single grunt.

“I won’t go into detail. Promise”

"…"

John reckoned that was about as much communication he was going to squeeze out of Roger for a while. For someone who could easily talk your ears off, he could sure get sullen when it was time for him to face ‘feelings’. He made a mental note to speak to Freddie and Brian, and decided not to tell Roger that his newspaper was upside-down.

 

 

In the mornings, Freddie could usually be found in the attic. A couple of years ago they’d converted it, as they needed the space. Their choice to all live together was a risky one: tensions could run high between four young men in a crowded apartment, let alone counting the fact that they all spawned drama and played in a rock band. Ultimately though, they wanted to be together, to work on their music, and I suppose because they were just so close. With the money they’d earned thus far from albums, they’d brought a nice place in the London suburbs; it featured three small bedrooms (they’d converted a fourth from a spacy wardrobe), kitchen, living room, two bathrooms and a rickety conservatory stapled to the back. The one problem was that they'd quickly discovered there was very little space for their various instruments. Spare guitars, extra strings and cymbals, Roger’s drums and Freddie’s piano took up a hell of a lot of space. So, they’d hired a contractor and got a staircase knocked up into the roof. Now anyone could go up at any time, and the space was just large enough for a couch as well: a perfect hideaway spot for when things got rowdy downstairs.

Freddie liked it most because of his piano. In the mornings, the attic was ‘Freddie’s room’, and anyone looking for him could reach him up there, messing with sheet music and scribbling lyrics. Today he was just playing old tunes, relaxing in his familiar melodies.

After a while, there was a tell-tale creak of the stairs, and John popped his head up over the banister. 

“Alright?” He greeted, settling down on the faded couch (heaven knows how it was already faded: they’d only brought it a year and a half ago).

“Wonderful darling, and you?”

“Yeah. I’m alright.”

Freddie closed the piano lid and lazily lit a cigarette. Puffing out clouds, he attempted to create smoke rings like the sort suave people did on television. He could never seem to get the hang of it. It was so frustrating!

However, he loved the atmosphere a haze of fogginess could add to a room. With the gentle creak of the house and the open window, blowing just a breeze to waft against the sheer curtains, the smoke gifted everything soft edges and muffled the sharpness, like a dreamlike veil hiding the harshness of the world. Sometimes it was mysterious, when the lights were purple and low, and the silhouettes of faces jumped out at you between the beats of the bass and the flash of lights bounced off the ceilings.

 

“John, come here.” He hummed. John got up and walked over. “Have a fag.”

“I don’t smoke, Freddie.” Objected John.

“Just humour me.” He passed the rolls to John, who took them reluctantly, and despite his averseness, rolled the herbs up expertly and lit the end with Fred’s lighter. He took a deep inhale, then blew out slowly.

“Now make a ring.” Ordered Freddie impatiently.

“A what?”

“A smoke ring darling, do keep up.”

John chuckled, then obediently formed his lips around the cigarette and puffed once. A perfect ring floated away from him, growing larger and larger and fading into the air.

“Bastard.” Laughed Freddie, “I knew you’d be able to do it!”

John gave him a wry grin and stumped his unfinished ciggy out in the ash tray. He always did that: it was probably his way of justifying his ‘Non-smoker’ status. Then he leaned back into the cushions and put his arms behind his head.

“Where’s Roger?” Asked Freddie, after a peaceful moment of quiet.

“I’m not sure mate, I haven’t seen him this morning. Maybe he went off with Jim for the day.”

“Drat. I was hoping to go through the percussion for this idea I have. My original plan was to have a heavy beat, but after, ah-hem, this week, I’ve decided to simplify it a little. Maybe just keep it to a uniform tap tap tap da-DUM! Kind of thing?”

“About that,” Said John, looking mildly confused, “Maybe we should lay off Rog a bit.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m thinking- I know I snapped at him, and I’m truly sorry. I thought I could make up by lowering his workload-"

“NO- Freddie-” John interrupted, sitting up straighter. “I mean lay off the pandering. I’m sure he has his reasons. I just don’t think babying him is going to help.”

Freddie paused for a long while, mulling over John’s words. If Roger was feeling ill or weak, then surely he should take more rest? Do less work? Freddie was perfectly capable of picking up any slack. In fact, he’d be happy to. On the other hand, John was almost always right in these sorts of things. Maybe he should heed his words, however backwards they sounded.

“You sure about that, dear? Has he spoken to you?” he prodded.

“Maybe… And I’m pretty sure. Look, I'll tell you this much,” John sighed “He’s not ill, so there’s no need to worry over him. It really is just to do with the food and heat.”

“Alright then… I’ll change the drums back then darling. And tell Brian: he’s just as bad.”

 

 

Later that day, John mulled over Roger’s words again, trying to pick out the meanings behind them. He implied he was ashamed? For passing out? Why? He was pale, slim, yeah, but that had always been a point of vanity for Roger. He’d pose and flaunt it whenever the tabloids poked at him for his girlish features. And what if it wasn't just to do with the heat at all?

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not over yet... or anytime soon. :)
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments, and please feel free to point out any grammatical errors. Also, I just wanted to specify that this follows no accurate timeline and most of the details in this are made up to fit the story, so don't take anything I say as gospel!


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